A Handful of Colors
by Ebony10
Summary: Five colors as they relate to the team in ways that may not be as obvious as one would think. A short collection of five oneshots; will likely be a part of a series. Probably some Jisbon- you know I can't resist. ;P
1. Black

So, I had started to miss doing shorts (like my first fic for the Mentalist). Due to this, I am starting a series of fics. The series will be called _Handfuls_. Each one will have five chapters of shorts (Get it? A handful of colors= five colors). I don't know how many there will be, but it will be a good distraction and exploration for me, I think. Hope you all enjoy it.

**A Handful of Colors**

**Chapter One: Black**

* * *

Patrick Jane was no stranger to darkness. Not anymore. In fact, he almost wallowed in the pitch black of those starless nights—nights that drowned out any vision, covered the rooms of his house in a blanket that removed from his sight the evidence of his loss. Instead of the angry red of his family's blood staring at him from his stark walls, he allowed his eyes to become unfocused as they looked into the black, as they stared into the darkness.

And he welcomed it, embraced it as he embraced that dark side of himself. Held it close, cradling it in an almost tender way—just waiting for that moment when he would need it most. The moment when he would slowly kill that evil man who had ruined, _continued_ to ruin, so many lives. Not just his, but countless others.

Red John.

Black.

It was never a color anyone would ever think to associate with him. His wife would never have thought to tie him to that hue. His agent, his clients, all would have connected him with something softer, more carefree. Even now, he thought that his co-workers at the CBI would choose a color that remained in line with their visual impression of him: blue, a golden yellow, even gray.

But not black.

It was their inherent optimism, which he had begun to realize was almost necessary if you were to be a cop. If there was no hope, no optimism, there was no reason to try to save the world. Without optimism, people like Teresa Lisbon wouldn't exist.

And it was when he lost his vision, when he was truly surrounded by black, that he realized that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as content in the darkness as he thought.

As he had felt the soft skin of Lisbon's face, he yearned to see her lips tilting up in that smile she gave him. The one that made him believe, even if just for a split second and only a false belief, that it was possible to escape the darkness. That perhaps it wasn't an irreversible part of him. That he could truly feel the warmth of light again. Not just superficially, on his skin. But reaching down inside of him, unfurling tendrils of warmth and comfort. Something he had not felt since his wife and child were murdered. Something that tried to stir him every time he looked at Lisbon.

He fought it. And continued to welcome the black. Because it was safe from those pesky feelings of caring and even worse: love. Things that were more dangerous than any urge to kill, any weapon. Those feelings (_love_) were simply implements that could lead to a much more complete destruction of a person.

He would know.

So he drew the black around him like a protective shield against the light, the _color_, that tried to seep in, that streamed off Lisbon towards him.

And when that shield started to crack, he knew he was in trouble. Because he may not be a stranger to black, to darkness, but he had definitely become a stranger to light, to color, to love.


	2. Pink

This one's a bit longer, but it felt necessary. It's not exactly that these colors are (or should be equated with) the characters from the show, but really are meant to approach them from a different point of view and give a chance to tell their stories, give them depth. At least, I hope….Thanks for the reviews, all! Posted right after writing so I hope there are no mistakes.

**A Handful of Colors**

**Chapter Two: Pink**

* * *

Like most any boy, Kimball Cho had grown up despising pink. Coming from a traditional family and having no sisters, he was always pushed to be the classic boy—never showing any weakness, constantly tough. It hadn't been a surprise (not to him, anyway) when he had rebelled against that strict, conventional upbringing and joined the gang.

Still, he rather thought that even if he hadn't been pushed that way, he still wouldn't have liked pink.

It was too feminine. Girly. Things that he _definitely_ wasn't and never wanted to be associated with. There had never been the moment where he wore the pink cummerbund to coordinate with his nauseatingly high maintenance prom date.

As a teen, he went for years avoiding displays of weakness. After all, one moment of vulnerability in a gang and it could very well be the moment that would end everything. He became what was necessary. Cold. Ruthless. Tough. Emotionless. He appreciated the girls that showed street smarts, were cunning. No blond-haired, blue eyed cheerleaders in pink for him. He couldn't, _wouldn't_, waste his time.

And if it ever crossed his mind that he was at once old beyond his years and too young to know it, then he never let it show.

Until one day he saw all that pink could stand for.

He had seen many things on the streets. His parents would shudder at the idea that their son had coldly watched someone bleed out of a knife wound over a turf war. His teachers, wanting to believe that he was soft and needy under that tough-guy exterior, would be appalled if they knew that he aided in hustling kids who were so much weaker than he, who could easily be manipulated for money, for favors. For whatever the gang needed.

Leaning against the cold brick of the dilapidated building behind him, a teenage Cho watched a little girl skip down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. Happily, she clutched a bright pink balloon. Idly, he wondered why a child around the age of six would be on these streets alone.

He didn't know until later that she had wandered away from her parents.

She was the classic little girl, one who must wile away the day with dreams of pink princesses and shining white ponies. Wearing pristine mary janes, blond hair in pigtails, purple and pink coat wrapped about her, she grinned up at her balloon.

And Cho wondered if he had ever felt so carefree. Wistfully, he stared at her expression, not quite recognizing this feeling inside of him.

A scuffle brought his attention down the road further, just feet ahead of where the girl was. His eyes narrowed. He recognized them. Drug dealers. The one thing he didn't touch, was careful to avoid. Those kind of vices only caused carelessness.

Even now, his memories of the next few moments were always in slow motion. A pulled gun. A shot echoing through the air. The ominous silence where there should have been the terrified scream of a small child. The deep red mingling with the light pink and purple of her coat.

Contrary to what everyone believed—his parents, teachers, cops—it wasn't juvie that turned him around, though he was thrown in there the very next day.

It was the sight of that pink balloon, floating up toward the sky, unaware of its fate. The foreboding and tragic sight of it snagging on a twisted wire at the top of the building and popping.

Fragments of pink rubber drifting down to the body of an innocent child who would never again know the light-hearted happiness that a simple pink balloon could bring.

And from then on, pink was no longer disgusting. Weak. But rather a soft kind of strong, one that could invade the most stalwart of gang-bangers and change them. Turn them.

As he sat at CBI headquarters looking out the window at the pink hues of the setting sun, he remembered that little girl and wondered who would believe that the color pink could make a man out of a boy, could turn a criminal into a crime fighter.

Could make him feel an emotion as _human_ as sadness.


	3. Lavender

Kind of strange chapter, but I felt like it fit. Not angsty (lol, is it bad that I almost prefer angsty??), but still hopefully insightful. Just realized that I never put a disclaimer up—I don't own them. But one can wish…

Please let me know if there are any typos. Posting immediately after writing. Happy T-Day, everyone!

**A Handful of Colors**

**Chapter Three: Lavender**

* * *

Grace Van Pelt may have grown up with a football coach for a father, a real man's man, but that didn't stop her mother from instilling a cherished sense of femininity within her daughter. Sure, she loved a spontaneous game of football or a night out watching a particularly rough hockey game. But she also loved baking, sitting with her mother sewing, having an impromptu spa day with friends or female relatives.

She had learned early that if a girl wanted to balance the two (femininity with the inner tomboy), then she had to have a certain look about her. Oddly enough, it was easier to wear lavender and then convince a guy that she had a strong pitch than it was to wear ripped jeans and a jersey, but show the girls that she could pedicure with the best of them.

So she threw herself into looking like the delicate, pastel loving creature. And, really, she found she _did_ like it. Just as much as her mother did. It didn't make her any less no-nonsense or any less able to field a foul ball. But it gave her this strange confidence. The kind that came from being completely comfortable with every aspect of yourself, including your ability to be a girl and still kick ass.

Just ask Timmy from eighth grade.

So when she became a cop and then a CBI agent, she had no interest in downplaying her womanly attributes or her fondness for heels, skirts, and makeup. Of course, she got looks—okay, sometimes leers. But she could handle it.

Her favorite work shirt was a button down, feminine dress shirt in the shade of lavender. Her mother's favorite color since before she could remember. _Her _favorite color. Her mother had gotten it for her when she had received the job offer from the CBI. Every time she wore it, she was reminded of the innate strength a woman could have. It reminded her that she didn't have to become one of the guys to find equality amongst them.

And when she ruined said shirt by chasing down a suspect, she fought hard to not let her co-workers realize she was upset. She had ripped shirts before with no comment from the team. Never something so important to her, but, prosaically, she realized that it likely wouldn't be that big a deal. She figured, if anything, that Jane would question her about it and that would be that.

She hadn't known that _he_ knew her so well. The next morning she came in and opened her drawer to put her purse in it like normal. The sight that greeted her as she pulled the wooden handle shocked her into stillness for a moment. A crisply folded lavender work shirt—not too masculine, but without too many frills—sat staring up at her. She reached a finger out, running it lightly along the soft, high class material. Looking up, she surveyed those around her. Not Cho, who rolled his eyes in an unusual show of emotion as a witness bawled to him over the phone. No, he wasn't one for a gesture like this. And if he were to buy her a shirt, he would do it out in the open. No secrets, no misunderstood actions.

And it clearly wasn't Jane. Even _she_ knew that Jane would have that slightly irritating, but well-meaning smirk, that knowing look in his eyes. Which he currently lacked as he glanced up at her, smiled, and returned to his rubix cube.

Not Lisbon. As the other woman in the team, it was likely that they would exchange tokens. They had before, actually. But Lisbon wasn't quite into the same clothes as Van Pelt and she was bound to get a gift certificate or want to be there to make sure her purchase was acceptable.

That left one person. And as he was studiously avoiding her gaze when he normally actively sought it, she figured she was right. A slight pink stained his cheeks and she could tell that he was a little embarrassed. Perhaps regretting his rash decision to buy her a gift like this.

But he had known it was special to her. And she thought about how lucky she was. Not just to have Rigsby care for her the way he does, but to have the whole team.

Because, in the last few months, she had realized that it would be naïve to think that it was merely the force of her personality that allowed her to be a woman and an agent, without having to forsake one over the other.

It was the mindset of those on her team, the way they looked at everyone equally. It was the hard work of her boss, Lisbon, in setting a course for those in the CBI to look to women agents as a capable individual rather than a piece of tail.

No wonder Lisbon was turning into her hero.

Funny how two women who meant so much to her—her mother and Lisbon—could have the same strength and yet be so different.

Van Pelt vowed that if she ever got married, she would ask Lisbon to stand in the ceremony. And even if her boss would never understand the significance of Van Pelt asking her to wear lavender, Grace would know what it meant.

Because to her, lavender would always be associated with an incomparable strength. And she hoped that, even if she chose never to wear it again, she would be as worthy of it as her role model was.


	4. Blue

Just a take on why Rigsby didn't turn out like his father. And a possible reason he went into law enforcement. Again, please let me know if there are any mistakes. Thanks everyone for the encouraging reviews! I know I can't respond individually to all (darn research essays...), but I do appreciate them!

**A Handful of Colors**

**Chapter Four: Blue**

* * *

Wayne Rigsby did not have the happiest childhood, though many people would be surprised to hear it. To most, he seemed amazingly well-adjusted. One of the good ole boys. But really, he had grown up despising his father, who ran in one of the cycling gangs.

Rigsby had loved his mother whole-heartedly and seeing the degrading way his father treated her had always made his blood boil. Abuse (verbal and/or physical), neglect. It didn't matter. Rigsby knew from a young age that his mother—his wonderful mother who worked so hard to bring him up right—didn't deserve to be treated like that. It was from her that Rigsby learned his rigid sense of right and wrong. He knew that it was sometimes a flaw, that things were sometimes a little too black and white, but he couldn't help it.

He was a firm believer in the fact that people should be responsible for their own actions. He wasn't sure if those actions defined a person, but he was sure that they should be ready to accept the consequences of their actions.

Just as he had accepted any punishment his father doled out for his 'rebellious' nature (normally, a punishment for the simple act of sticking up for his mother). Just as he had expected Lisbon to accept whatever sentencing would come hand in hand with murdering a sick molesting bastard (if she _had_ done it, that is).

Just as he expected Jane to take whatever heat came with murdering Red John.

He didn't always like the results, but it was the way his life worked. As a cop. As a person.

He suspected it was because of that man, the only man from his childhood that he could remember as deserving respect.

When he was five, his mother and he had been shopping in the grocery store. His mother, tired from working a double shift so that she could make the electricity bill, had been juggling fruit and making her way back to him, standing obediently at the shopping cart. An irreverent teen, rebellious and dangerous, had hurried past her, knocking into her almost violently and causing her to fall to the floor. The fruit rolled in all directions as if they had a mind of their own. Rigsby's eyes followed the blueberries as the streaked across the scuffed tile of the grocery store floor.

Belligerently, the young man had cussed at his mother, automatically assigning her the fault. The child that Rigsby was had frozen. He recognized that tone. It was the one that always brought violence and tears—either his or his mother's.

Suddenly, there was a man sternly setting the teen straight and helping his mother up. At first, Rigsby thought he meant her harm and prepared to throw his slight self at the broad-shouldered figure gently grasping his mother's arm. But his feet remained frozen, unsure, when he saw the care that the man displayed. The blue of his shirt stretched across his back and the soothing tones of his voice carried back to the small boy rooted to the floor by the shopping cart.

The man's gentle tones put Rigsby into a sort of trance and the child's eyes turned to the floor, seeing the smashed blue of the berries that had found their way under the feet of the shoppers. He could relate. He sometimes felt as small and helpless in the face of his father.

A second later, there was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up into the kind face of the very man who had helped his mother.

"Keep an eye on her, buddy."

And he did.

Even more, he never forgot the blue of that patrol cop's uniform, badge gleaming under the fluorescent lights. In fact, that blue—that man—had probably influenced him more than anything else. Though he had seen the man for mere minutes, that experience had affected him more than the cop would ever know. That was the start of his seemingly endless supply of respect for those in law enforcement—no matter which branch.

He was glad he had become the right kind of blue. Not helpless or crushed under the circumstances of life, but the strong immovable blue that the man had sported—though it was unseen. Rigsby may not wear the uniform, but, remembering the glitter of the man's badge, Rigsby was proud to wear his own.


	5. Orange

The last chapter of this one. I think the next series in this line will be _A Handful of Emotions_. Hope you enjoyed these shorts. They were a great break among pages of my papers…Thanks for all of the reviews!

**A Handful of Colors**

**Chapter Five: Orange**

* * *

Teresa Lisbon couldn't remember what it felt like.

It had been a long time ago. Years. Well, who was she kidding? When it had only been months, it had felt like ages since she had been that person. Because mere months were all it took for her family to fall apart and for her to realize it was her place to pick up the pieces.

She never once realized that it should be someone else's job. Her _father's_ job. Instead, she had shrugged off the last vestiges of childhood and become both sister and parent at the age of fourteen. Four young boys looking to her for reassurance, for survival. At times, even her father was like a large child. Needy. Vulnerable.

The drink had always brought him so low, down past the world of rage and anger. All the way down to a deep depression that he wallowed in. It was so deep that when she followed to help, she wasn't sure she could surface let alone bring him up with her.

And she was still ashamed at how much she had loved that man, _still_ loved that man. After hours of screaming, of flinching away from his sudden movements, of feeling blows that left darker bruises inside than out. Even after that, she would gently bring him water and aspirin to alleviate his pain. Wash the vomit from the side of his mouth. In the better times, his hand would reach out and ever so softly—if sloppily—brush against her cheek.

"_You're a good girl, Tess."_

How pitiful to live for that moment. The small moment where the broken man in front of her remembered that she was someone he cared for, that he had once been a father to.

After all of that, it was harder and harder to remember. To remember who she had been before. To remember the lovely face of her mother, her dark hair shining against the soft fabrics of her clothing.

Soon, all she could remember was orange.

Her mother had been in love with that color. Always saying that it added spice to life. And growing up, Lisbon had begun to connect orange with spontaneity, with happiness. With her mother.

Not the bright Halloween orange, but a deep, tangy orange. Scarves, shirts, bracelets. Her mother had had many things in various shades of it.

Funny how her death had resulted in the removal of all of that from the house. From Lisbon's life.

So she could remember the color. The shade. But not the feeling. Of love, spontaneity. Of feeling safe trusting those things.

It was a long while before Jane brought it out in her. And even then, against her will. But something about him…

"Variety's the spice of life, my dear Lisbon."

And for a moment all she saw, all she felt, was orange.


End file.
